To anyone who perchance has been awake in the small, still hours of the past fow mornings the plaintive cries of countless migrant birds will have become quite familiar. These are the voices of those Wild birds that change season in the night, and wail their way From cloud to cloud," as at this season of the year they journey southward in quest of more genial climes and more plentiful food. This vast battalion of migratory birds is on its return from the breeding grounds furnished in that dreary, swampy, tree-less, miass-grown waste known ax the Tondra, which stretches from the Gulf of Obi, on the west, to Behring's Straits on the east, whose northern Li bounded by the ogle Original from
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.